


If on a winter night

by Kendrene



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Arranged Marriage, Azgeda Clarke Griffin, Canon Compliant, F/F, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Knotting, Mating Bites, Roan is a good bean in this one, and a loving brother
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-05
Updated: 2020-11-08
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:48:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24024595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kendrene/pseuds/Kendrene
Summary: After years of war Lexa and Nia have come to a peace agreement. To strenghten the alliance, Lexa is asked to marry one of Nia's daughters. The Ice Queen's plan goes awry when Heda sets her sights on Clarke, her husband's bastard.
Relationships: Clarke Griffin/Lexa
Comments: 57
Kudos: 1510





	1. If on a winter night

**Author's Note:**

> Back with some Clexa sexa! Enjoy, folks and stay safe in these trying times! 
> 
> \- Dren

There’s just something about the palace which rubs Lexa the wrong way. 

Many things about Azgeda sit badly with Lexa, but the atmosphere within the small timber and stone fort fills her with particular unease. When she mentioned it to Anya, her General had laughed, stating it was only natural that she should feel the way she did.

“After so many years of war, how could you not?” They had been sitting in the rooms Nia had provided for her, sharing a cup of mulled wine before sleep. “But now we have peace,” Anya had spat the word into the flames roaring in the fireplace, eyes inscrutable. “And you will mate one of her spawn as agreed.” 

And that is perhaps what has her so on edge that she jumps at every shadow. Of course, Lexa had always known the day would come in which she’d have to choose a mate to bind herself to, but she’d postponed the moment, perhaps longer than she should have — as Titus never fails to dourly remind her. First she’d excused herself with grief; after losing Costia at the hands of the very woman who’s now offering peace, sharing her bed with someone else was just unthinkable. For well over a year, she had worn white, and only returned to the red sash of her office when the Ambassadors began to grouse about it.

Even after that, she’d kept herself apart. She would not participate in the rites of spring, or lay with a willing omega on May Day. And, when the clans brought their daughters to Polis in a bid to catch her eye, Heda would treat them all with equal courtesy, but never favor one above the rest. 

Then, just as autumn was dressing the trees in red and gold and every shade of orange in between, a messenger had come from the far North, bringing her Nia’s peace offer. 

There was no choice but to accept, yet so much blood had been shed between Azgeda and the Coalition, Lexa fears nothing but resentment will come of this union. Still, she gave her word and she intends to keep it. 

These and other thoughts take up her mind as she aimlessly wanders the halls. It’s so early in the morning, she has the fort all to herself, save for the bodyguards who follow at a discreet distance and the men keeping watch over the Queen’s domain. Tension thickens the air whenever she passes by one of the sentries, as though the warriors tasked with guarding her person expect an ambush to be sprung at any moment. Mutual distrust had already boiled over once, a day or so after Lexa’s entourage arrived, but the northerners who started trouble had been publicly whipped by order of the Queen, and she’d seen her own men punished for the scuffle. 

She’s so distracted by it all, she doesn’t really notice where she’s going. There’s a polite throat-clearing at her back, and she stops in her tracks, shooting a questioning look over one shoulder.

“What is it, Gustus?” 

“Heda… I think we’re walking in a circle.” He eyes her diffidently, never quite meeting her gaze, which is unlike him. Perhaps he’s sensed her restless mood — Lexa’s sure she  _ smells  _ uneasy by this point — or maybe the smoky gloom of the halls is getting to him, too. “I believe we may be lost.” 

She opens her mouth to argue, but when her eyes fall on a familiar landmark, she presses her lips in a thin line instead. Nia is not one for opulence, but the corridors are lined with spoils of war. Old standards, rusted weapons nailed to the timbered walls, things stolen during one of the countless raids the Queen and those before her led during the Long War. One of Trikru’s standards, torn and brown with blood here, a plinth carved from the red stone found only in the desert there — and the set of wicked-looking swords hanging on the wall to her right is something they have definitely gone by already. More than once.

“Perhaps,” Gustus suggests carefully, “we should ask one of the sentries to direct us back toward your rooms. Or find a servant. Someone is bound to be around setting up breakfast.” He grumbles the last words while sniffing at the air, hunger showing on his face. 

“You’re right,” Lexa concedes, turning them back the way they came. “Let’s see how far we can retrace our steps. Chances are we’ll come across somebody in the meantime.” 

It son becomes apparent that is not to be the case. There’s no trace of servants, and even the sentries they’d crossed paths with before seem to have vanished in thin air. 

“Trap?” Gustus snarls, hand tight around his sword’s hilt. 

“I don’t think so. But I believe this is a part of the fort we’re not supposed to be in.” Lexa gestures to what lies ahead of them. There’s less of a stately air about this section of Nia’s palace; it feels to Lexa like a truly lived-in space, where the standoffish, cruel facade of the northern clan is allowed to melt away, revealing the daily lives beneath. It even smells different — of sleep, and abandoned children’s toys. Of tangled bodies in the dark. 

“We should go.” She points to a set of stairs leading down, convinced that anywhere else they end up will be better than here. She can’t risk a diplomatic incident. Not now. 

Her warriors follow her lead, eyes trained on every corner, scanning for possible threats. At the end of the stairs is an open door, through which curls of morning fog find their way inside, lit a pale rose by the dawn. 

Blinking owlishly at the sudden change in light, Lexa steps through the threshold and stops dead, mouth open in shock. 

The beginning of a question leaves Gustus’s lips, but a moment later, his eyes come to rest on what she’s looking at, and the words whoosh back into him, knocking him a few paces back. 

Bad weather had accompanied their journey north, and by the time they’d reached Queen Nia, the snow was well above the horses’ fetlocks. No snow covers the ground here, and the air is almost spring-warm. What Lexa mistook for fog is vapor, rising from a hot water spring in the middle of what appears to be a private garden. 

She takes everything in; spruce and pine tall enough that their shadows graze the top of the fort’s walls, the carpet of moss silencing their steps. The rose bushes blooming wherever sunlight gathers, despite the fact they should be dead. A girl is sitting on the soft grass by the water, facing away from them, and while Lexa’s well-trained eyes notice the garden’s every detail, she effortlessly captures Heda’s undivided attention. The wind picks up, parting the low fog, and she tosses her hair as though she’s caught by a shiver, but her head doesn’t turn. Her wheat-colored hair traps the light, crowning her in gold. 

“Stay here,” Lexa whispers, waiting until Gustus nods and retreats in the shadow of the doorway before continuing. “She may be able to give us directions, and I don’t want to scare her.” 

With the warriors watching her back, Lexa heads deeper into the garden. It’s wondrous, really, something she’d never expect to find within the fort. Had they arrived in daylight, she may have noticed the tips of the evergreens peeking over the walls, but they’d reached the fort when night had already fallen, and she had been busy with ceremonies and meetings since. 

This is the first moment she’s had all to herself, and it’s tempting to just lose herself among the greenery for a while. Getting directions means heading back to duty, and the warmth misting the air makes her unwilling to do so. 

And then, there is the girl. There are a thousand things inside this unexpected place waiting to be discovered, but Lexa’s gaze invariably roams back to her. 

From a distance, she had thought her to be younger, but as she draws near, Lexa reassesses. She can’t yet see her face, but there’s a slim dagger glinting at her waist, and she wears one of the fur lined tabards Lexa’s noticed on Nia’s warriors — except that, for some unknown reason, hers is sky blue. The fragrance of the surrounding roses is almost overbearing, but surprisingly, Lexa can detect the girl’s scent, too. She smells a bit of sage, or mugwort, and of the washed out, tired sunlight of late autumn afternoons. That’s how she looks, too; tired and a bit defeated, shoulders hunched as she stares at her reflection in the water. 

“Sorry…” Lexa comes to a shuffling stop, realizing far too late that she’s gotten way too close. So much for not scaring the girl. “Sorry, I— !” 

At the sound of her voice, the girl bolts to her feet, and without thinking, Lexa  _ moves, _ pulling her away from the edge of the pond. The girl’s eyes widen in shock and she curses, the word harsh and cutting, a dialect Lexa fails to recognize. When Lexa’s too slow to remove her hand, those startlingly blue eyes narrow to shards of ice, and around them, the garden grows completely still. 

“I’m sorry.” She’s Heda, the Commander of the Coalition, and she’s absolutely tongue-tied. “I didn’t mean to startle you. I just—” The blue of the girl’s eyes draws Lexa in, and she drowns without being submerged in water. In Azgeda, blue eyes are quite the common trait, in combination with blonde hair — at least more recurrent than among the Trikru — but the girl’s eyes aren’t the glacial hue of Nia’s, nor the stormy grey-blue Lexa’s spotted among the common folk. No, they’re a deeper, brighter shade, and she’s reminded of the cornflowers her mother used to gather in the spring and braid in her hair when she was little. Before Anya came to her village smelling of violence and steel. Before she presented and bled black for her people. 

“I’m truly sorry,” she repeats, kicking herself for sounding like a fool. “But I think I’ve gotten lost.” 

“Obviously.” The girl pointedly looks at Lexa’s hand, still fastened around her collar, and she hastily lets go. “You shouldn’t be here.” 

She states that much matter-of-factly, as though Lexa’s a bit slow on the uptake. The girl’s demeanor leaves her entirely wrongfooted; she’s used to people falling over themselves in deference — not that she requires any outside of formal meetings — and this is… unexpected. Refreshing. Infuriating, too. Her jaw clenches tightly enough that her back teeth grind together, and her chin starts to tilt up in the arrogance-filled slant she uses with recalcitrant Ambassadors, but Lexa reins her temper in, and the tension trickles off of her slowly. 

Her men, despite remaining hidden in the shadow of the doorway, have a clear line of sight, and even though they can’t possibly hear what is being said, Lexa can feel Gustus  _ bristle  _ at the girl’s evident lack of reverence. Her inner alpha feels insulted, too, but Lexa finds that she can’t fault the girl for behaving the way she is. Her scent is wary, but not alarmed — a clear sign she hasn’t spotted the bodyguards — and Lexa had chosen not to wear the symbols of her rank when she’d left her rooms earlier on. Gustus had objected, but she’d quickly assuaged his concerns when she’d explained she was looking for a brief respite before the frenzy of the upcoming days was upon them all.  _ Besides, _ she’d added with a wry smile as he followed in her wake like her own personal stormcloud,  _ everybody here knows who I am. _

Clearly she’d been wrong. 

“You talk funny.” The girl wears a puzzled expression, which brings Lexa to refocus on the task at hand. At least she tries to; the girl’s beauty, illuminated by the sun, is ethereal almost. All children grow up hearing about the creatures and spirits inhabiting the woods, and she looks like one of those — a water spirit, come to quench the thirst of an exhausted traveler. “Your accent, it is weird,” the girl continues, as though her own wasn’t all hard consonants and husked vowels. “Are you from the south? Did you come with the Commander?” 

A strange note enters her voice then, not deference exactly, but the closest thing to it Lexa’s going to get today. 

“I did,” she confirms, thawing a little, and that’s all she manages to say, because the girl’s face lights up, and a moment later Lexa’s buried under an endless string of questions. The small matter of her trespassing seems entirely forgotten. 

“Is she as fearsome as they say? Is it true that she was found in the forest and that the wolves were nursing her? The skalds boast they could beat her bare-handed when they’ve had too much to drink, but I think they’d piss themselves if they ever saw her.” The girl tugs her down on the grass, so that they are sitting side by side, next to the pond. It’s hotter here, surrounded by the wisps of smog that rise from the surface of the water. Summer-like and dreamy. Where the girl’s fingers curl around her bare wrist, Lexa’s skin tingles. She takes a deep breath, hoping it will help clear her head a little, and it’s a big mistake. She and the girl are sitting so close their knees are brushing, and the fragrance of sage is twice as strong now. It’s calming and light, and it gently curls inside of Lexa’s eager lungs. It’s unmistakably omega, and only a few moments pass them by before she’s thoroughly intoxicated. 

“Oh! Oh— I apologize, I—!” The girl stammers to a stop and drops her gaze into her lap, chewing on her lower lip and shying away from Lexa just a little. When she snatches her hand back, fast enough one would think she’d gotten burned, Lexa almost whimpers at the loss. “You must think I know nothing about manners. You said you’ve gotten lost, and here I am blathering on about… about…” 

“I can tell you about Heda, and you can tell me how to find my way back to where her entourage is housed,” Lexa interrupts her with a smile. “Like a barter?” 

She couldn’t say exactly why she’s lying. She could tell the girl who she really is and demand to be shown back to her quarters. But then the illusion would be shattered. Afraid that she’d get punished, the girl would curb that endearing curiosity of hers and behave like all the rest. Treat Lexa as though she’s better than her by default, when the bitter, sadder truth is plenty of her predecessors have been barely more than blood-spilling despots, placed in command by a quirk of fate and little else. No, Lexa decides, this morning in this garden where she’s not even  _ supposed  _ to be, she’ll just let herself become the girl she could have been but for her blood. She’s earned the right to.

“Deal.” The girl smiles back, bright like a second dawn. “I’m Klark.” 

“Clarke,” Lexa repeats, the name softened by her own accent. “I’m— Tris.” She’s sure Anya’s second, whom they’ve left safely back in Polis, won’t mind Heda borrowing her name for a while. 

“Well then, Tris.” Clarke nods to the doorway, and for a moment, she sweats cold. The instant she sees one of Lexa’s warriors, the game will be up. Thankfully, Gustus must have guessed she’s in no immediate danger, and while his keen eyes never leave her and Clarke, he has the sense to stay out of sight. “When you leave, go back up the stairs, and right at the top, you’ll find a door concealed behind a heavy tapestry. The gardeners use it mostly, but it’s early enough that the passage beyond will be deserted.” Lexa vaguely remembers the spot Clarke is telling her about, but when she’d walked past it on the way to the garden, she hadn’t spared the piece of fabric a second thought. It was plain, really, faded and a little threadbare toward the bottom, at odds with the other objects Nia proudly displayed. It makes sense now that she’s taking Clarke’s explanation into account. 

“The passage will take you to the servants’ quarters, and someone there will direct you back to your Commander.” Clarke might have forgotten about Heda while helping out her new friend “Tris,” but she remembers now, and leans forward expectantly, blue eyes ablaze. 

“My turn.” Lexa licks her lips, unsure how to continue. She’s never had to pretend she’s not herself, and certainly never had to describe her qualities to others. She’s… Heda, and little beyond that, but luckily enough, Heda is who Clarke wants to hear about. 

“Heda’s just. She’s fair.” That much Lexa can say with utter confidence. Or, at least, she tries her best to be. Especially when her patience is worn thin and her temper flares, dangerously close to transforming into a fire. “But I guess your  _ skalds _ ,” she stumbles over the unfamiliar word, and Clarke murmurs encouragement, “I guess they do well to be afraid of her. She can be quite scary when she’s angry, but she burns cold.” Fury is something that puts Lexa to deep shame. When it has the best of her, the entire Tower — no, the  _ city _ — treads on the thin ice of her rages. They never last long, but they are glacial things, as dead and terrible as winter. The last time she felt heat in the midst of it was on the day of Costia’s death, or rather on the day she’d found her head tucked into her bed. She’d torn her room to shreds and maimed one of the men who tried to calm her down. After, Lexa had sworn she’d never let her inner fires blaze in such a way again. 

“And the stories? The one about the wolves, is it true?” 

The stories accompany her wherever Lexa goes, but being nursed by wolves is an unfamiliar one. She’s heard a good variety over the years; Heda drinks the blood of her slain enemies, Heda can breathe fire. Heda can entice any omega into her bed — even married ones! — with just one smoky look. Anya is particularly fond of the last one, and of the way it makes Lexa blush behind the ears. 

“I’ve never asked her, but I don’t think so.” Clarke’s rapt face falls into a pit of disappointment, and she struggles to stifle a laugh. “But I know she’s a good hunter. It’s possible she’s hunted wolves before.” 

“Makes sense, although I have to admit, I prefer—” 

Lexa doesn’t get to hear what Clarke prefers, because from somewhere beyond the rose bushes, a raised voice shatters the quiet.

“Klark!” A woman calls, dour and clipped. “Where has the wretched child gone off to now….  _ Klark _ !” The voice draws closer, and Lexa recognizes Nia. 

“You must go.  _ Now _ .” A sudden change comes over Clarke. Her eyes completely show the white, and she reeks so strongly of terror the air tastes of it. She frantically tugs Lexa to a half-crouch, shoving her toward the doorway and back to Gustus, but doesn’t follow, even though she would have time to. 

Undergrowth rustles nearby, and as Lexa silently moves away from the pond, she wonders which path the Queen took to reach the garden. The fort must be full of secret passages. 

She makes it back to her men unscathed, and despite instinctively knowing it is dangerous, she lingers a touch longer than is necessary — enough to cast a look back the way she came.

Queen Nia is tall, taller than most women, and she positively towers above Clarke. While Lexa watches, rooted to the spot, the woman grabs Clarke by a forearm and begins to shake her. 

“Was there somebody with you?” 

Clarke’s lips move without sound, and her head shakes in denial. 

“Liar.” The Ice Queen pushes her back a step, so hard she nearly falls bottom-first into the water. “I heard you talk! I can smell them! Who were you talking to?” 

Nia has her back to them, but any moment now, she may turn and see Lexa as she is, framed by the stone arch. 

“We must hurry,” Gustus hisses in her ear, and pulls her into the safety of the shadows. “The girl’s buying you time. Use it.” 

She nods, numbness crawling up her spine, and allows herself to be led back up the stairs. 

Still, she can hear Nia’s inquisitively harsh voice.

“Who was it, girl? Tell me now, or I swear—” 

By a trick of the wind, or perhaps the hollow nature of the tower they’re ascending, Clarke’s reply makes it to Lexa’s ears. 

“Nobody. There wasn’t anyone, Mother.” Her voice is quivery and filled with fear. 

_ Mother _ ? 

Lexa’s heart performs the funniest leap inside her chest. 

That — that changes  _ everything _ . 

*******************

“Her face isn’t scarred.” 

Lexa’s back in the rooms assigned to her, and it is night again. She really has no clue where her day has gone, but her feet ache from too much standing up as she stretches her legs toward the fire. The warmth she’d found inside the hidden garden is a fading memory, and the chill has taken residence deep in her bones. 

“What?” Anya sniffs at the roasted elk the servants left for them and takes a cautious bite. She’s done the same with the rye bread and the hard, blue-veined cheese arranged on the tray. Before that, she tasted their water and ale. 

Lexa’s stomach rumbles. 

“Anya—” 

“They could be trying to poison you.”

“You’d think Nia would have found a more convenient way of killing me by now.” Anya pops another piece of cheese into her mouth — just to make sure it’s safe, of course — and Lexa’s belly grows even more insistent. “An assassin, for example. Making me trek all the way to her door just to slip poison in my food seems like a bit of a pointless endeavor, no?” Anya doesn’t answer, reaching for another piece of elk instead, but Lexa steals it from the plate before she can. She’s agreed to let Anya taste everything she’ll eat, but there are limits. 

Her General glares, but has enough common sense to say nothing. 

“Anyway, as I was saying—” 

“I heard you. She has no ritual scars, so what?” 

“Don’t you find it strange?” Everything about that morning had been. Lexa had tried to get Clarke — a daughter that, for some reason, the Queen had kept away from her while parading the rest of her litter under her nose — out of her head without success. Thankfully, she had been able to dissemble; not that putting on a cold, somewhat bored face while meeting dignitaries had been hard at all. 

“I think this entire thing is strange,” Anya remarks, cleaning her mouth with the back of her hand. “The union, the alliance. Coming to terms with Azgeda feels… unnatural.” 

“Yet you advised me to accept the offer.” Lexa chews on her lower lip before continuing. “Anyway the girl… Clarke….” 

“Dresses like a warrior, moves as one, but isn’t marked as such,” Anya interrupts, growling the words out. “I’ve heard you fine the first one hundred times you mentioned it.” 

“Yes, but—” 

“I also heard you say how beautiful she is. ‘Lovely’ you said, ‘smells like autumn’ apparently. Have you taken into account that perhaps she was faking? I can’t believe she didn’t recognize you, especially if, as you say, she’s Nia’s spawn.” 

“Must you always be so suspicious, Anya?” Lexa tries and fails to curb her annoyance. She knows she’s being unfair; her General always has her best interests in mind. 

“Suspicion has kept me alive this long.” Anya throws a bone into the fire, watching impassively as it blackens and burns. “It’s kept you alive as well.” The latter is a whisper so low it’s almost lost amid the crackling of the flames.

“I’m sorry, Anya.” Reaching out, Lexa places a hand on the other woman’s shoulder. “All I’m saying is, this changes things somewhat.  _ If  _ she truly is Nia’s daughter, she’s a viable candidate.” 

The General grunts, slightly mollified. 

“I can make inquiries, if you’d like. Discreetly.” 

“No.” It’s tempting, but Lexa can’t risk a servant reporting back to Nia. Clarke had covered for her with her mother, and asking after her would bring unwanted questions. She’s not worried for herself, but for the girl. Besides, the feast during which she’ll choose her mate is only days away, and even though she can’t say why, she’s positive that Clarke will be there. As long as Nia doesn’t know they met, Lexa has the advantage. 

“No,” she repeats. “But keep your eyes open.” 

Later that night, after she’s finally crawled under her furs, Lexa lies awake. She stares at the play of light and pulsing shadow the dying fire projects on the walls and thinks of the days ahead. Mainly, she thinks of Clarke, and when sleep finally claims her, she is back with her inside the garden.

The next morning, her mind is made up.

*******************

“So which of them do you fancy?” 

Roan unceremoniously ousts the warrior to her left and sprawls down on the seat he was forced to leave. “Choose carefully; my sisters are a bunch of vipers.” 

“Should you talk this way about the blood of your blood?” Lexa chides, raising an eyebrow. “Your mother could hear you.” 

Roan  _ tsks  _ and pours himself a drink. His hands are shaking, and he tips the carafe too far, splashing ale all over the table. “So what? She knows it’s true. Raised ‘em that way.” He leans closer and offers her a toothy grin that’s meant to be seductive. “Or you could pick  _ me _ .” He winks, and Lexa almost falls off of her chair, roaring with laughter. 

The both of them know Roan is joking. For starters he’s the Prince, the heir to Nia’s throne, and she’d never let him marry the Commander. With Lexa’s might by his side, the risk of him dethroning her is way too high. Secondly, he’s an alpha same as her, and they’d never get along — never have children either. 

“Well?” 

Lexa sighs.

“Ontari’s pretty.” Not as beautiful as Clarke, she wants to add, but bites her tongue in time. Ontari  _ is _ pretty, if a permanent sneer and eyes that glitter like a hawk’s can be called such. She greatly takes after her mother, at least in regards to her mannerisms. For the rest, she’s dark where Nia’s fair, but her eyes — a rich brown speckled with gold — are as hard as the Queen’s whenever they meet hers. 

“Ontari’s a bitch.” Roan snorts, his speech a little slurred from too much alcohol. “She’ll stab you when you aren’t looking, that one.” 

“What about Echo, then?” Lexa asks, deciding to play along. He’s scooted closer to her, and to an onlooker, they’d appear like conspirators, but she isn’t all that worried. The feast at the end of which she’ll choose her mate has been raging on since before sundown, and Roan isn’t the only one well into his cups. Warriors from all clans sit around tables so laden with food they groan under the weight, and everyone seems to be having too much fun to be spilling blood, or spying. Still, things could change at any moment, very quickly. 

“A bit better, but not by much. She’s younger than Ontari, though; less stubborn, too. You bring her South, it maybe softens her a little.” 

Lexa  _ ‘mmms’  _ noncommittally, and grabbing a bone from a nearby tray, tosses it to one of the mangy dogs begging for scraps under the tables. 

“And Clarke? Is she a snake like her sisters?” Hers is a gamble, an arrow shot taken in the dark. According to rumors, Roan hates his mother, but the very same paint him as an opportunistic man. He could decide that aligning himself with her now is too risky and throw her to the wolves. 

Her question is met by a stunned silence, then Roan grabs her by her wrist, hard enough a hiss of pain builds at the back of her throat. When he’s sure nobody is paying them any attention, he hustles her away from the feast and the light of the torches. He smells wary, almost afraid. 

“Who told you—? How do you—?” He pauses and takes a breath that seems to go on forever. All of a sudden, he is entirely sober. “How do you know about Clarke? Spies?” 

“I don’t have spies among your people.” 

“Bullshit.” Roan bares his teeth. “Be honest with me now,  _ Commander _ , and I may answer you.”

He’s taken her to a somewhat secluded corner near one of the exits. The door has been left open to help dispel the smoke of the torches, and eddies of ice crystals make their way inside, stinging her cheeks. 

“I’ve met her.” Outside the Great Hall, the wind howls, rattling the door in its hinges. Nevertheless, Lexa lowers her voice further, and takes her eyes off of Roan to scrutinize the shadows. “By accident. I’d gotten lost, and—” 

“She’s my father’s bastard child.” His scent shifts again as he speaks, going from sour fear to something warmer. Fondness. “My sisters... tolerate her. But mother hates her.” 

“And you?” 

“I—” The cloud cover parts, and stray moonlight shines across his features for a moment. Like all the northerners, he’s scarred and scruffy-looking, but laugh lines lift the corners of his lips. He stares at her intently, as if by doing so, he could see her thoughts, then eventually, replies with another question.

“What is she to you? If you plan to use her for your—” 

“What if I chose her?” Roan’s eyes widen until the white is all visible. “As my  _ mate _ ,” Lexa clarifies, even though there is no need. A bashful pink tints Lexa’s cheeks, and she’s grateful they are standing in the shadow. She had not dared voice the thought thus far, not even to Anya, but it feels good to get it off her chest. Saying what she’s wanted to do since she met Clarke makes everything more real. 

Several days have gone by since their encounter, and at times, Lexa almost managed to convince herself it had all been a dream. A hallucination conjured by her tiredness — by the tension of being stuck shoulder to shoulder with the enemy. She had kept a lookout, but much to her dismay, she hadn’t crossed paths with Clarke since. Yet, there had been times in which she’d thought that she could scent her, the pervasive aroma of sage beckoning from beyond the nearest door. 

Then, just as the ceremony was starting, she’d had a fleeting glimpse. Clarke’s blue eyes had locked with hers from across one of the bonfires over which the meat was roasting, and again, Lexa had felt in the presence of an apparition. A goddess of winter, hair of silver-gold and snow and ice. 

“You would save her.” Roan’s voice brings her back to the present. It’s rough with more emotion than Lexa’s ever heard from him. “I protect her when I can, but I cannot show—” Whatever else he means to say, he swallows back, and glares at her as though his sudden display of emotion is her fault. Which...  _ fair _ . 

“You can’t show how deeply you care for her,” Lexa finishes for him. The reason behind it is clear to her, seared in her mind with the memory of how Nia had treated Clarke. 

Roan scratches at his beard, eyes darting away from hers. “If you do this, Mother will…” 

“Hate me more than she already does?” Lexa scoffs softly, eliciting a chuckle from the Prince. “She will be mad alright, but there won’t be anything else that she can do. Your thenns want peace, I’ve spoken to a few, and they’re already planning what prices they can get in Polis for elk and seal and blubber. The truth is that war has starved us all, and if the Queen should choose to continue it, well…” 

“...The thenns may decide to put somebody else on the throne. And it would not be me.” 

Nia had seized the throne after her husband’s death because she’d been the fastest. She’d swayed his generals with promises of plunder and the gentler lands they would make theirs, and the few who dared oppose her were coincidentally found dead — exiled if they were lucky. If she were deposed, the rest of her family would follow. 

“Let’s head back to the table before our absence becomes too obvious,” Roan suggests, touching her arm. “I’ll talk to Mother on your behalf. She’ll hate it, but she despises the idea of Ontari and Echo warming your bed more, I think.” 

A gamble, an arrow shot taken in the dark. 

Lexa nods and follows him back into the light.

*******************

She chooses Clarke, and dances with her to the wild music of the drums while Nia glares bloody murder. But, just as Lexa predicted, there isn’t much the Queen can do, and she’s sure she’d seen relief alter her features the moment she pointed to Clarke before they settled back into resentment. 

She declares Clarke will be hers in front of all the clans, and while some are surely disappointed that she’s marrying into Azgeda, all of them cheer — drunk on the potent ale the northerners favor and on the prospect of peace. 

She picks Clarke, and Ontari turns away from them in disgust, while sweeter, softer Echo nods her understanding. 

She takes Clarke’s hand and leads her from the Great Hall while their people shout encouragement and suggestions lewd enough she feels her face catch fire. 

Back in the blissful quiet of her rooms, Lexa stops and finally allows herself to turn to Clarke. She’d pulled her away from the crowd at a near run, not daring to look back. Caught by the unexpected, stupid fear that she would vanish like a fever-dream or turn to salt. 

The omega stares back at her positively furious.

“You lied to me.  _ Tris _ , my thrice-damned ass.” 

“I can explain.” Lexa raises both hands in a placating manner, and backs away a step. There may not be a drop of the Queen’s blood inside Clarke’s veins, but she has her expression down to the detail. “Really, I—” 

“Oh, I’m  _ sure _ . You couldn’t possibly trust me could you? So you lied about who you were, and when you figured out who  _ I _ was, you decided you could use me.” Lexa tries to get a word in, but Clarke doesn’t allow it. She keeps staring her down, and moving forward, backs her into the nearest wall. “Well,  _ Heda _ , go ahead and take what you bargained for!” Her tirade is followed by the sound of ripping cloth, and Lexa has a hard time keeping her gaze from dropping to the omega’s cleavage. 

“I— we don’t— mmmph!” The rest of her defense is muffled by Clarke’s mouth crushing hers. The kiss is wild, full of anger and repressed need. Sloppy, too, as though Clarke never kissed anyone else before. When the omega’s teeth bump against hers, Lexa cups her face and takes control, slowing her ardor. Gentling it. 

“I know we don’t,” Clarke husks when they end up forehead to forehead, chests heaving. “But you chose  _ me _ .” Tears thicken the words, and she rapid-blinks to keep them from falling. “Just when I thought…” Her face twists with a deep-seated pain, and she cannot continue. She doesn’t have to — Lexa can imagine the rest. “So you better take what it is you bargained for.” Her tone hardens again, but she can’t completely mask her hope. 

“You’re not mad anymore then?” Lexa traces her jaw lightly, enjoying the way she shivers and presses closer. 

“I’m  _ still  _ mad,” Clarke corrects her. “I may be less mad after you’ve fucked me.  _ If _ you’re any good.” 

Lexa bristles at the implication, and growls spilling from her lips, finishes the job Clarke had begun on her clothes. The woolen tunic is well-made if simple, but she’s strong, and the woven fabric tears like paper in her hands. When she’s done, Clarke is left quivering and half-naked, breasts in full view. 

However, Lexa’s attention lingers elsewhere. 

Ugly bruises hug Clarke’s ribs, some old enough to be faded to pale yellow, others recent and purple-blue. 

“She beats you.” Lexa traces a particularly nasty-looking lesion with one finger and Clarke hangs her head, saying nothing. Her silence speaks for her, as does the salt-scent of her tears. 

“I— I deserved it,” the omega stammers, shirking back as though she is expecting another beating. “I’m ill-mannered. I’m infuriating. I’m—” The sharp-tongued girl who kissed the life out of her moments ago is nowhere to be found. 

“—You’re my mate.” Lexa asserts evenly. “And nobody will lift a finger toward you from now on.” Clarke’s shoulders hunch further, and she wonders whether she’d heard the same promise before. 

“Can you please show me your back?” A disturbing thought has made its way to the forefront of her mind, one that Lexa cannot shut away. Without speaking, Clarke obeys, and all breath is knocked out of her chest. 

Her face may be free of scars, but her back is a latticework of them. Some are thin. translucent lines, others are raised and angry. Just starting to scab over. 

“It hurts, doesn’t it?” Lexa trails her hand up and down Clarke’s spine, rubs soothing circles along her shoulder blades. Eventually, the omega relaxes and lets herself be wrapped into her arms. 

“You get used to it.” Clarke does her best to sound nonchalant, but the small sob that escapes her when Lexa starts to kiss her back gives her away. “Why are you...so… so…  _ gentle _ ?” she manages, like it’s a flaw. 

“You don’t want me to be?” Lexa’s hands have found her breasts. Closing her eyes, she fondles them, and when her fingers graze Clarke’s dusky, erect nipples, she pinches and pulls. “You’d rather I be rough?” 

“N— no! Maybe… I don’t know.” Clarke arches into her a little, ass rubbing into her hips, and Lexa groans. She’s been able to ignore her own desire for now, but the friction serves to remind her how hard she is already. In her pants, her cock gives a heavy twitch, precome leaking from the tip. 

“I will be anything you want,” she promises, and nips Clarke’s ear. “But not here. I want you under the stars.” 

Clarke turns, smiling at her through the tears. 

“I know just the place…” 

*******************

The garden is warmer than Lexa remembers, or maybe it’s the heat of their bodies, twined together. 

They lie on the moss next to the hot spring, and the world around the two of them is silent — holding its breath for what’s to come. A new storm has rolled in from further north, and the smell of snow fills the air, tangled with that of their arousal. Lexa can see the tiny flakes swirl down toward them, but the heat rising from the water is so great that they evaporate before they have a chance to chill their skin. 

Lexa wouldn’t care if she was freezing to death. 

Clarke sprawls underneath her, half-lifted on her elbows, her moon-pale skin framed by the greenery. Lexa takes her in without restraint; from her pillowy breasts, which are just as soft and full as they look, to her shuddering, sweat-glistened belly. She has generous curves, but the strength beneath is undeniable. Under Lexa’s hooded gaze, Clarke’s thighs twitch, beaded with the dew of her arousal, and attracted as a moth is to the open flame, her eyes end their journey at the thatch of hair shadowing the omega’s cunt. It’s several shades darker than the hair atop her head, and coarser, too. Lexa cannot tear her eyes away, and licks her lips. 

There’s barely enough light to see by, and it’s the otherworldly glow of a sky bloated with more snow. Still, she can see the flush on Clarke’s face, and admire how it deepens to russet when the omega’s thighs fall wider apart. She may have never done this — she had confessed as much while Lexa touched her everywhere she could safely reach on the way here — but she sure is a fast learner. 

And there may not be a lot of light, but it’s enough for her to see what waits at the crux of Clarke’s thighs. She has the barest peep of swollen lips and pinkened folds. Everywhere is dripping slick. 

“Fuck.” 

Her own need overpowers her, and without thinking, Lexa falls forward, face firmly planted between the omega’s legs. She hasn’t done this in so long, she’s seized by momentary panic. What if she bungles it? What if Clarke dislikes her? The first, exploratory swipe of her tongue is greeted by a strangled moan, and she regains some of her confidence. 

“Lexa, what are you…?” 

She isn’t really listening, she doesn’t feel Clarke’s fingers twist in her hair, or the blunt nails scratching her scalp. She’s inebriated by her taste — something wild, but sweet, and salty like the sea she has seen only once in her whole life — to register much else. 

Muscles spasm against the flat of her tongue, and the moment her mouth closes around Clarke’s straining clitoris, the omega’s hips leave the ground entirely, with enough force that Lexa’s almost knocked into the natural pool. 

She presses the flat of one hand to Clarke’s pelvis, keeping her still, and spurred by the cries of unbridled pleasure coming from above, she sucks harder, letting the omega feel the edge of her teeth. Her efforts are greeted by an effusive wave of slick, and heat shoots from Clarke’s cunt directly to her core.

Cupping herself tightly with her other hand, Lexa seeks to alleviate the pressure building in her cock, but in the exact moment her fingers curl around her shaft Clarke comes, making things worse. 

The omega’s climax is a fierce, violent thing. She bucks against Lexa’s mouth, smearing slick over her lips and down her chin. The taste of her is sharper now, and Lexa falls over herself to lap up every last drop, groaning as her length throbs in her palm, aching with need. 

“Fuck.” Clarke echoes, short of breath. “That was...it was…” Words failing, she tugs Lexa up by her partially unmade tresses, and kisses her again, open-mouthed and ravenous. 

“I want you inside me.” Tucking her face shyly in the crook of Lexa’s neck, Clarke reaches down between them, fingers brushing her hand, which is still slowly pumping around her cock. “Please?” Like a consummated temptress, Clarke cants her hips up invitingly, easily winning Lexa over to the idea. 

She’d wanted the night to be about her mate-to-be, but an eager, possessive glint has entered Clarke’s eyes, and she seems willing to go all the way through. 

When Clarke gathers her courage and begins to stroke her, Lexa is glad they tore away the remainder of their clothes on the way here. 

“You’re  _ big _ ,” Clarke enunciates next to her ear, voice quivering with anticipation and a little fear. “Will it hurt?” As daunting as she might find the act, the omega is unable to stop touching Lexa, and she ruts into her hand a little, chasing the relief.

“I’ll be gentle,” she grinds out, self-restraint fraying at the edges. “I’ll go sl— ahhh!” Her attempt at reassurance ends in a gasp, and white stars dance behind her eyelids. Clarke has found a rhythm, and is rapidly milking her toward release. “Cl— Clarke, if you don’t stop, I’m gonna— !” 

“Good.” The brazen woman who kissed her with such surprising hunger inside her rooms is back, eyes glittering and crinkled in a smile that’s all mischief. “You can always get hard again, can’t you, Heda?” 

“You little--“ She’s a vixen, a goddess, a nymph risen from the water. Lexa doesn’t get to tell her any of it. With a hard snap of her hips and a coarse shout, she comes, and spills all over Clarke’s belly. 

“Good,” Clarke repeats and licks her lips, entranced by the copious amounts of Lexa’s release. She doesn’t ease, her pace and in a few minutes Lexa’s hard again, just as she’d predicted. 

“ _ Mine _ .” She lightly swats Clarke’s hand away, trying to remind herself she should be gentle. She  _ promised  _ she would be. Her inner alpha urges her to pin the omega down and have her way, but Lexa fights it off the best she can, spine arching with the effort. 

“It’s alright.” They don’t know each other at all, but Clarke seems to read her inner struggle easily and pulls her down on top of her until their bodies are slotted together. “I want it, Lexa.” 

A deep, primal craving stirs in Lexa’s bones, and she fits her cock to Clarke’s soaked entrance, slowly pushing forward. The omega’s thighs naturally lift to bracket her hips, and she clings to her shoulders for dear life. As the thick head of Lexa’s cock breaches her opening, she tenses, face wrung in pain, but with the next thrust she goes slack, nails scritch-scratching at the nape of Lexa’s neck in appreciation. 

“Gods, Lexa!” Her head falls back to reveal the lovely curve of her throat and her pulse, a dark vein beating madly just beneath the surface of her skin. “You feel so good!” 

Lexa is beyond words. All she can manage is an animalistic grunt and another push. Clarke isn’t her first lover. There was Costia of course, and before her, a few others to take the edge off after battle. Warm, willing bodies Anya usually provided after the fight, so that Lexa could sink into slippery heat and remember that she was still alive. So that she could exhaust herself, at least for one night, and stop dreaming of butchered men and blood-stained snow. 

Clarke’s walls are fluttering velvet around her, her cunt a perfect sheath. Experienced she may be, but she’s close to a second orgasm within seconds, the familiar swell of her knot building at the base. Driven by instinct, Lexa bears down with all of her weight and works it in, inch by agonizing inch. 

“Mine,” she huffs into Clarke’s neck, over her pulse point. 

“Yours.” Clarke is breathy and high-pitched and close to coming herself. “Do it, Lexa” 

Lexa’s hips heave a final time, and with a wail of bliss from Clarke, the knot is finally inside, greeted by a torrent of slick fluids. Her teeth break Clarke’s skin at the same time, and they come together, writhing and moaning on the grass. 

The world around them fades away, and Clarke becomes the only thing that she’s aware of, the only thing that matters. Their scents mix with the joining, until one is indistinguishable from the other, and for a time, while the aftershocks of their combined releases thunder through her, Lexa is only capable of drifting. 

She comes to sometime later, realizing she’s still draped over Clarke and possibly squishing her a little. 

“Don’t move,” her mate begs, just when she begins to think that she should shift them to a more comfortable position. “I like to feel you on top of me.” 

Lexa licks the fresh mark she’s made on her neck in reply, before baring her own throat. 

“What… what are you doing?” Clarke blinks up in confusion. “That’s not… We’re not allowed to bite our alphas.”

“I’m not Azgeda.” Lexa’s hand splays protectively over the bruises on Clarke’s ribs. “I’m not like them at all.” 

*******************

Later, while they’re bathing in the pool, Clarke swims closer and puts her arms around Lexa’s neck, kissing the bruise her teeth left there. Lexa likes the way it smarts, the pain of it enhanced by the scalding water lapping at her flesh. 

“What happens now?” 

Dipping a little lower, Clarke rests her head under the roof of Lexa’s chin. She seems content, and if her own bruises pain her, she does not let on. Lexa hasn’t asked how each was earned, or if Nia used a hot knife to scar her back. She has no need for morbid details, and only wishes the water could erase the marks as easily as it cleaned them of the blades of grass stuck to their skin.

Wrapping her arms tightly around her mate, she works herself into the shape she knows Clarke needs, without waiting to be asked. After Costia, she had thought she’d never be able to be soft again, but with Clarke, she is relearning how. 

She is about to answer when a yawn splits her face in two. Bleary-eyed, she blinks back sleep, but knows it will soon be time for them to backtrack and head to bed. 

“Now we go south.” She nuzzles into Clarke’s damp hair and kisses her on the forehead. “Now I take you home.” 

Clarke lifts her head to catch her eye, and her smile is blazing summer. 


	2. Southbound

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clarke heads to her new home. And to a new life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bonus chapter. Clarke's POV. Enjoy.
> 
> \- Dren

They are chased by snowstorms all the way to the Azgeda border. 

Clarke can’t help but feel that they are a manifestation of Nia’s mood — the Ice Queen said all of the appropriate things while parting ways with Lexa, but she’s learned to read past the false smiles and polite words. 

For her it meant survival.

She can’t wait to leave the Azgeda territories behind, but even after Lexa hoists her onto her wardraft, vaulting up behind her, Clarke has trouble believing it’s actually happening. 

Heda’s personal guard closes ranks around them, but despite the ring of flashing steel surrounding her, Clarke is afraid she’ll hear Nia’s voice any second, ordering her back. 

When they pass under the shadow cast by the citadel’s main gate she tenses. Her heart climbs in her throat and she cranes her neck in an attempt to spot the archers on the walls. 

Already, she can hear the hiss of arrows part the air, the screams of the struck warriors. 

“It’ll be alright.” Lexa whispers in her ear. “She can’t hurt you anymore.” 

The words are soft, meant to soothe, but Clarke’s wound so tight she jumps and nearly topples from the saddle. 

She never could ride very well.

Lexa makes no further comment. The alpha’s arms grow tighter around her waist, and as they leave the fort behind, her jaw gradually unclenches. 

Still, it takes hours before she stops looking over her shoulder, past the rear guard and to the empty road behind. 

She wishes the nightmares about Nia would go away as easily.

***

Despite Lexa’s reassurances, they push on until the light fades every day, or until the snow’s falling too hard to see. 

Clarke is more used to the cold than the southern warriors are, but spending hours in the saddle when she’s so unused to it starts to take its toll. Blisters break the soft skin of her inner thighs, painting her breeches bloody, and come dusk, her back is so stiff she lets herself fall off the saddle like a sack of old potatoes. 

Lexa discreetly offers to lift her off the horse the first time, but Clarke sets her jaw and shakes her head. Maybe she’s being stubborn about it, but there are eyes on her everywhere she goes. She doesn’t want to appear weak.

Used to conceal her own moments of weakness, Lexa understands. 

The camp is bigger than she expected. Sprawling. Tents go up every night, like a small forest, and it’d be easy to get lost. Not that she’s overly concerned. Clarke sticks to Lexa’s side as much as she is able, one with Heda’s shadow. 

Lexa brought along a sizable force, but the numbers weren't clear to Clarke until the majority of her warriors rejoined them in the march to the south. There’s a contingent from each clan — except for Azgeda — and even when some peel away in other directions after they’ve left the Ice Queen’s lands behind, enough remain for the group to be considered an army. 

The camp is different from anything she’s ever seen before.

The sheer size of it is most noticeable at dusk with the cook fires lit, and the snowy side of whatever hill Lexa’s generals have chosen to pass the night on blackened with tents. 

Another difference is in the tents themselves. Azgeda favors cured pelts, or igloos. Southerners use oiled cloth, mottled in the green-brown shades of the forest for Trikru. 

The one where Lexa — and by extension Clarke — sleep, lies in the middle of an interesting set-up. A kind of camp within a camp surrounded by a ring of Trikru tents. 

It can be easily defended, she realizes the first night Heda leads her there, with Lexa’s most trusted warriors close at hand in case of attack. 

She’s too exhausted to notice anything else, save for the bed in the back of the Commander’s tent. An  _ actual  _ bed, piled high with furs. At the sight, her eyelids begin to slip shut, and she drags herself to it. Falls on the soft sea of pelts face first. 

Lexa says something in the background, but Clarke’s too tired to comprehend her words. A hand shakes her by the shoulder, and Lexa’s voice is closer now, touched with concern. 

Clarke ignores both, burrowing deeper into the nest of furs and blankets, and behind her, Lexa falls quiet. 

She holds her breath, the sudden fear that she’ll be punished washing over her like a bucket of cold water. 

She’s asleep — Clarke wills her breath to slow, her body to go slack. Lexa’s presence at her back is like a weight. She’s a nobody the mighty Heda should not concern herself with.

Minutes go by like that, with Clarke faking sleep and Lexa stock-still next to the bed. 

And nothing terrible happens. 

Lexa sighs, so close her mouth is almost against Clarke’s temple, and there’s a brief moment, right before she hears her pull away, when Clarke feels a hint of warmth to the top of her skull. Like Lexa had been about to place her hand there, and thought better of it. 

Then, sleep overcomes her and she feels nothing at all.

***

They go on like that for days.

Get on horseback at daybreak after a quick breakfast of hot tea and cured meat. Ride until dusk with breaks during which they walk to let the horses rest — rinse and repeat.

Clarke near-falls off of Lexa’s horse every evening, stumbles her way to their tent and collapses, asleep as soon as her head hits the pelts. 

Snow gives them no reprieve. The sky stays grey and sullen, low, swollen clouds hiding the sun. If the snow abates, it’s only to leave room for frozen rain. 

The slippery crust of ice that forms on the ground then makes for an arduous slog — men huffing with exertion alongside their mounts. 

Clarke’s never suffered in the cold, but the weather gets so bad she has to start wearing extra layers. 

All in all, it’s a miserable journey. 

The only thing making it bearable is the knowledge there’s a decent bed waiting for Clarke every night. 

Until, twelve days into their journey, Lexa separates her from it. 

Clarke’s three-quarters of the way through the usual routine — fall off the horse, stagger to Heda’s tent, crawl into bed — when it happens. 

“No.” Lexa resolutely blocks her path, face determined. “We’re not doing this anymore.” 

She’s not touching her, she’s not even standing all that close, but to Clarke she may as well be a wall. Nia used to corner her the same way before the beatings started. 

Too tired to try and force her way past the Commander, too sore-legged to run, she shoots Lexa a wounded look.

“I know you’re tired,” Lexa reaches out for her, but the moment Clarke instinctually flinches away, she drops her hands as if she’d plunged them in a fire. “You barely eat,” she continues, eyes soft. 

“I just want sleep.” Clarke lowers her voice to a whisper, gaze dropping somewhere in the region of Lexa’s boots. 

Unused to kindness, she doesn’t know what to make of Heda’s concern. Part of her thinks it’s practical; they are mated, and surely the Commander desires pups. Only a strong, healthy omega can guarantee that. But she’s seen clear worry etched on Lexa’s face, and that is worse perhaps. Nobody ever really worried about her except for Roan, and then only if he thought he could get away with it. 

“Just a bit of broth,” Lexa entices, stepping aside. 

“Then I can sleep?” She knows that she sounds like she’s begging, but is powerless to stop it. 

It was easy to play confident on their mating night, fueled by the anger of Lexa’s lies. Now, surrounded by people who look to her and see a stranger, Clarke can’t pretend anymore. 

“Yes.” 

“Alright.” If it gets her what she wants, Clarke can put up with a bit of food. 

The smile Lexa shoots her before darting from the tent to get her food knocks the breath out of her entirely. 

Clarke’s seen Lexa aloof, she’s seen her flushed with lust, burdened by her responsibilities. So tired that her eyelids drift shut, that the warpaint can’t conceal the sunkness of her eyes. And she’s watched her power through it all, even at the end of her resources. But living in the Commander’s shadow every moment of her day hasn’t prepared for the transformation that smile brings. 

It makes her seem much younger, the girl that she would be if responsibility hadn’t been thrust upon her shoulders.

Lexa’s return finds Clarke still waiting by the bed. She didn’t even dare sit down, aware she’d doze off the moment her body was allowed to relax. Secretly afraid Lexa’s playing an elaborate game, and will in time turn out to be just like Nia. 

“Here.” A wooden mug is pushed into her hands, vapour rising from it. The wood is thick enough Clarke doesn’t get burned, but warmth seeps through and the chill that lingered in her fingers quickly dissipates. 

Bringing the mug closer to her face, she peers at the contents and takes a doubtful sniff. The broth — chunks of vegetables floating within — smells so good she almost drops the entire thing on her lap. Her stomach gurgles. 

“Try it.” Lexa plops herself down on the bed and takes a demonstrative sip. “It’s very good.” 

And she’s right. 

There’s spices in it Clarke doesn’t recognize, that give the broth a rich, nutty flavor. It coats her tongue, and stays in her mouth long after she’s drained the mug. 

She realizes she has done so with a start, and frowns down as though she could conjure more into existence by sheer force of will. 

“How was it?” Lexa looks at her like she’s the one who hung the sun up in the sky, and Clarke feels a blush creep in, starting from the tips of her ears. 

“Uhm,” she wets her lips and squirms a little, turning the mug round and round in her hands. “Do you think I could have some more?” 

What Lexa’s face does next can’t be described as anything other than  _ beaming _ . 

Clarke doesn’t understand her mate one bit, but knows without a shadow of a doubt she wants to earn that kind of smile again. 

***

So the obvious thing to do is to be the one to go get food for them the following evening. 

It’s not an easy task, Clarke finds out as soon as she strays from Heda’s horse. 

Lexa is distracted — one of her warriors approaches as soon as they dismounted to relay some message or another — and whilst her back is turned, Clarke slinks away. 

The sky overhead is fogged up with the smoke from all the fires, and while she isn’t sure where the Trikru cook fires are situated, all Clarke has to do is follow her nose. 

The line for food is obvious enough. Warriors mingle and talk as they wait, snow turned to a slippery sludge beneath their boots. Stopping a few paces away, Clarke studies the proceedings. 

The bonfires are arranged in a long line, teams of two tending each one. One warrior dishes out the food to those in line, the other turns the spits, or stirs enormous pots of stew and soup. Every now and then, they add more wood to the fire, to keep the heat level even. 

As evening falls around them, Clarke resigns herself to waiting. It’s fine. She’s used to it. And, besides, the bonfires are so big, heat washes all the way to where she’s standing. The cold air of the night is almost pleasant. 

“What are you doing?” 

A gruff voice calls from behind her, making her jump. 

“I’m— nothing. Waiting for food.” Clarke kicks at a pile of snow, not meeting the man’s eyes. She knows him, after a fashion. Gustus, Lexa’s left hand where Anya is her right. Maybe it’d be more accurate to say he knows who she is. 

It’d also be a fair statement that he scares her. He’s big, as broad-shouldered as a bear. Sounds like one too — all baritone and growly.

“Well, you’ll never get any if you just stay here.” The hand he places on her shoulder is surprisingly gentle, but she winces as if he’d slapped her full in the face. 

“I can’t get in line.” The words come a little easier when he lets his hand drop without comment. His brow is darkened by a frown, but Clarke can read people well enough to understand he isn’t mad at her. “An omega eats last.”

“Not here.” He nods toward the queue. “Here everyone gets in line and if the first person happens to be an omega the others wait.”

“Really?” Clarke can’t even keep count of how many times she went to bed hungry because the kitchens had run out of food before she could have some. Having royal blood running in her veins didn’t matter. Didn’t help either. 

Roan used to sneak chunks of bread and cheese to her, but only if nobody was around to see. In comparison, this sounds like a dream. Or a lie. 

“Really.” Gustus nods again. “Come on, let me show you.”

Sometimes later, as Clarke heads back to Lexa with her prize (two bowls filled to the brim with stew), there’s a spring in her step. 

***

The further south they go, the more the landscape changes. Nia’s lands are harsh, like the people living there, so much so that sometimes Clarke wonders who shaped who. Planting anything requires ripping swathes of soil from the unwilling grip of pines, and the ground itself is rocky. Harder when it’s frozen than the iron with which it shares the color. 

Summers are short dreams, never truly warm, and the smallest squall is enough to starve an entire village. Hunger is the constant companion of her people, from the first sob out of their mothers’ womb to the last breath they take before they’re burned. Clarke doesn’t know what customs south are like, but Azgeda doesn’t waste time with burials. The earth is way too hard.

The weather warms so subtly she doesn’t really notice it at first, Days grow longer one minute at a time, and the storms that followed them thus far, give them some quarter. 

Then, one morning, she blinks her way out of Lexa’s tent to discover the world changed overnight. 

The first thing Clarke registers is the  _ drip-drip-drip _ of melting snow — a sound seldom heard where she grew up. 

Secondly comes sunlight, bouncing brightly off the snow, shining through the icicles that still hang from some nearby trees. 

But, most surprising of all, are the patches of clear ground that she can spot here and there where the snow completely melted. 

Clarke gasps; the stalks of grass pushing through the snow are not the stilted, brownish things she’s used to. Everything is green. Full of new life. 

Water is everywhere; rivulets and ponds of it, never still, always flowing — drying in the warmer air. 

“What is this?” She whispers, heart full of reverence to bursting. 

“Spring.” 

Lexa’s followed her outside. She catches Clarke’s eye with a soft smile and stretches like a cat, rolling her shoulders. 

Clarke can only stare. She heard about it from the warriors who patrol Nia’s southern borders, but never thought that she would see it in her life. 

“It’s beautiful.” 

“Yes.” Lexa edges closer, smile still in place, arms opening for her. She’s learned to let Clarke initiate contact, and in turn, Clarke’s taught herself to read her alpha’s face and the uncountable moods she’s capable of. 

Right now, it’s only Lexa standing next to her, offering a hug. It’s early enough that the camp is still mostly deserted — they have a few precious moments of privacy before Heda’s mask has to slip in place.

Clarke steps into the safe circle of Lexa’s arms, into her warmth, and thinks that something deep inside her is starting to melt too.

***

Her moon blood is late.

At first Clarke supposes it’s the endless days spent in the saddle (she’s nowhere near a competent rider, but she sits a bit straighter in front of Lexa, less afraid), or the change in her diet. Southerners have more strange foods than she can keep track of — and she uncovers a sweet tooth she didn’t know she had. 

As the days go by without the familiar cramps and discharge, Clarke allows herself to hope. It’s possible their union near the hot springs has borne fruit. That must be it; Lexa has not touched her since and not for lack of want. Clarke can feel the alpha stiffen against her lower back whenever they ride. See her underthings strain with need as they lay in Heda’s bed at night. 

Lexa is simply giving her the time to acclimate, and showing day by day she truly is like no alpha Clarke has ever known.

Already, she dreams of being round with child — boy or girl it doesn’t matter, but always they have Lexa’s eyes and her gold-spun curls. 

With her mind’s eye, Clarke sees herself give birth, watches Lexa doting on their child. 

The dreams abruptly end with the arrival of her blood. 

That is why Lexa walks in on her one night while she’s trying to burn her bloodstained britches in a lit brazier. 

“Clarke!” 

Her tone is more alarmed than anything else, but Clarke jumps anyhow and burns herself. 

“Clarke…” 

Pulling her away from the glowing coals, Lexa takes her injured hand in hers, holding it as if fearing Clarke will break or vanish if she squeezes even a tiny bit. 

Where her hand brushed the metal of the brazier the skin is red, blisters pushing against her flesh, off white and full of liquid. It doesn’t hurt yet, but Clarke knows it will. Nia took the hot iron to her back enough times for her to be intimately acquainted with the searing pain of fire on skin. 

“Clarke, what were you trying to do?” Lexa’s eyes are bottomless and round; she’s as close to panic as Heda ever gets, Clarke can tell. 

Throat barred by her own fear, she shakes her head in silence, tears streaking her cheeks. Clarke makes a face at the taste; they’re sharp and bitter on her tongue.

Lexa relents, eyes taking in the room, the blood staining Clarke’s singed pants. The fabric didn’t burn like she thought it would, just filled the tent with an acrid smell that Clarke thinks she’ll not scrub from her memory or nose anytime soon. 

“You thought—” Lexa trails off, traces her cheek with gentle fingers. Her thumb, calloused and rough, rubs away the tears with such care that another sob claws out of Clarke’s chest before she can even think of stopping it. 

“I thought I was pregnant,” she sniffles, barely able to string the words together. “My moon blood was late and I— It doesn’t matter.” Setting her jaw, Clarke offers her cheek. Her voice hardens, but she’s coming apart under the brittle ice. “If you wish to punish me, I understand.” She’s seen it happen before — omegas revealed to be infertile, discarded for another. Mating bite or not.

Lexa freezes, her stillness like an absence, a hole cut through the very fabric of the world. Clark holds her breath in until it hurts, ready for the beating to begin and terrified it will. 

“Why would I do that?” 

“Because you want a litter and I failed you.” Clarke tries to hang her head, but Lexa’s hand, carding through her hair slowly, doesn’t let her. 

“I wanted you as my mate.” Her head is tilted back, warm lips pressing against the mating bite. Lexa licks at it with the flat of her tongue before she bites, and the pain of her teeth melts to something else in the pit of Clarke’s stomach. 

“Litter or not, I will always want you.” Lexa continues, eyes dark. She pushes Clarke down on the bed and climbs on it behind her. 

***

Later, she is buried to the hilt inside her cunt, slick with blood and shared arousal. 

“What—” Clarke pants between the thrusts. “What if I never give you a child? Won’t you hate me?” 

“Never.” Lexa groans, drapes over her back to kiss her shoulder blades. “A child would be a gift, but I wouldn’t love you any less for lack of one.”

“Love me?” Clarke’s so close to her climax she can practically taste it, but Lexa’s words still the rocking of her hips. “You love me? But—” But we are just learning one another, she wants to say, as Lexa spills inside her, causing her mind to white out.

“I loved you from the moment we met, Clarke.” Lexa sighs into her ear, burying herself as deep as she can go, a seemingly endless flow bathing Clarke’s walls. 

“And I cannot tell you why, but I know I always will.”

***

It’s a slow process that takes months. 

Nyko warned her it never truly ends, but the wounds don’t feel so raw, and the ache is dull. Bearable. 

Clarke likes to compare herself to an old injury; most days she’s fine, but sometimes the tiniest thing can set the pain off. On the surface she looks healed, but both she and Lexa know the damage is too deep to be completely gone. 

There are setbacks, of course. Recovery is not a straight road that connects two places. Pitfalls wait at every step, and some of them remain unseen, no matter how carefully you look. 

She gets better with loud sounds in general, but will never have an easy time around raised voices. Nights are fine now, provided they remember to leave a candle burning, but Clarke will never be at ease sleeping alone. 

She tries when Lexa is kept away from her by duty, and even though she spends those nights with her eyes fixed to the ceiling, she says nothing of it. Things could be worse. She could still be north. 

The handmaidens catch onto it regardless, and take turns coming up with an excuse to sleep next door. 

(“what if you wake up hungry in the middle of the night?”) 

After she throws up in the morning for a week straight and Nyko finds she is with child, they don’t even need to make up anymore lies. 

It takes months, years of mindfulness on Lexa’s part, but Heda is nothing if not persistent, and finally, like a flower opening its petals to the warm summer sun, Clarke blooms. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Looking for things to do as we slip into lockdown hell part two? Want more smut? Follow the link [on Tumblr](https://kendrene.tumblr.com/) for more gay shenanigans!

**Author's Note:**

> join me[ on Tumblr](https://kendrene.tumblr.com/) for more gay nonsense!


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